Leiter extracted the lemon peel from his Martini and chewed it reflectively. The bar was filling up. It was warm and companionable — a far cry, Leiter reflected, from the inimical, electric climate of the negro pleasure-spots they would be drinking in later.
‘Fortunately,’ continued Leiter, ‘I like the negroes and they know it somehow. I used to be a bit of an aficionado of Harlem. Wrote a few pieces on Dixieland Jazz for the Amsterdam News, one of the local papers. Did a series for the North American Newspaper Alliance on the negro theatre about the time Orson Welles put on his Macbeth with an all-negro cast at the Lafayette. So I know my way about up there. And I admire the way they’re getting on in the world, though God knows I can’t see the end of it.’
They finished their drinks and Leiter called for the check.
‘Of course there are some bad ones,’ he said. ‘Some of the worst anywhere. Harlem’s the capital of the negro world. In any half a million people of any race you’ll get plenty of stinkeroos. The trouble with our friend Mr. Big is that he’s the hell of a good technician, thanks to his oss and Moscow training. And he must be pretty well organized up there.’
Leiter paid. He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘We’ll have ourselves some fun and try and get back in one piece. After all, this is what we’re paid for. We’ll take a bus on Fifth Avenue. You won’t find many cabs that want to go up there after dark.’
They walked out of the warm hotel and took the few steps to the bus stop on the Avenue.
It was raining. Bond turned up the collar of his coat and gazed up the Avenue to his right, towards Central Park, towards the dark citadel that housed The Big Man.
Bond’s nostrils flared slightly. He longed to get in there after him. He felt strong and compact and confident. The evening awaited him, to be opened and read, page by page, word by word.
In front of his eyes, the rain came down in swift, slanting strokes — italic script across the unopened black cover that hid the secret hours that lay ahead.
CHAPTER V
NIGGER HEAVEN
At the bus stop at the corner of Fifth and Cathedral Parkway three negroes stood quietly under the light of a street lamp. They looked wet and bored. They were. They had been watching the traffic on Fifth since the call went out at four-thirty.
‘Yo next, Fatso,’ said one of them as the bus came up out of the rain and stopped with a sigh from the great vacuum brakes.
‘Ahm tahd,’ said the thick-set man in the mackintosh. But he pulled his hat down over his eyes and climbed aboard, slotted his coins and moved down the bus, scanning the occupants. He blinked as he saw the two white men, walked on and took the seat directly behind them.
He examined the backs of their necks, their coats and hats and their profiles. Bond sat next to the window. The negro saw the reflection of his scar in the dark glass.
He got up and moved to the front of the bus without looking back. At the next stop he got off the bus and made straight for the nearest drugstore. He shut himself into the paybox.
Whisper questioned him urgently, then broke the connection.
He plugged in on the right of the board.
‘Yes?’ said the deep voice.
‘Boss, one of them’s just come in on Fifth. The Limey with the scar. Got a friend with him, but he don’t seem to fit the dope on the other two.’ Whisper passed on an accurate description of Leiter. ‘Coming north, both of them,’ he gave the number and probable timing of the bus.
There was a pause.
‘Right,’ said the quiet voice. ‘Call off all Eyes on the other avenues. Warn the night spots that one of them’s inside and get this to Tee-Hee Johnson, McThing, Blabbermouth Foley, Sam Miami and The Flannel…’
The voice spoke for five minutes.
‘Got that? Repeat.’
‘Yes, Sir, Boss,’ said The Whisper. He glanced at his shorthand pad and whispered fluently and without a pause into the mouthpiece.